


Midday Morningtime

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Breakfast, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock runs himself ragged, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a letter from an apiologirst, and a birthday card from Scotland Yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midday Morningtime

They finish the case in the early hours of the morning, wrap it up as the city slowly begins to stir. Sherlock’s ground himself down on this one, so much so that John has to wrestle him out of the cab and into 221, careful not to disturb Mrs Hudson as he guides Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock’s too exhausted to even take off his coat, instead slumps onto the bed already asleep. John manages to slip off the Belstaff and scarf and his suit jacket, pulling his belt through the loops and easing off those expensive shoes, leaving it all in a heap beside the bed along with his own jacket and belt and shoes. He crawls in beside Sherlock, wraps his arms around them, and falls asleep almost instantaneously.

John is the first to wake, sometime around one in the afternoon. For a long time he doesn’t stir from the bed, savouring the warmth and comfort of lying beside a Sherlock who is actually sleeping and not just thinking. It’s almost as if he unconsciously knows what day it is and is making an effort to show just how much he disdains the sentimentality of the rest of the human race as regards such dates. The idea makes John smile drowsily before pressing a kiss to his brow, right beside a stray curl, and rolling out of bed. It might be a long time before Sherlock wakes.

On the kitchen table – not quite free of biohazards what with the recent case and all – he finds a plate of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits, fresh-baked by Mrs Hudson alongside a note gently admonishing them for not taking better care of themselves. There’s a neat stack of post too which John goes through while the kettle boils. Most of it is nonsense – leaflets and notifications – and what’s left is addressed to Sherlock, though if left to his own devices he’d likely tell John to just open it anyway. There is a letter from an apiologist which may prove fruitful and a birthday card from Scotland Yard. John suspects that the latter was sent as something of a joke, and props it up on the mantelpiece beside Billy the skull.

He digs a tray out from under the sink and arranges two cups of tea on it, along with some toast, marmalade and a handful of the biscuits. If Sherlock sleeps much longer, he’ll wake with a headache and be cranky for the rest of the day. So John carries the tray into the bedroom and sets it down on the bedside locker.

For a moment, he studies Sherlock. Studies the way in which the years have left their mark on him. There are creases around his eyes which were never there before, undreamt of when they first met, and now they don’t quite smoothen out as he rests.  And there’s the odd flash of grey in those curls of which he’s always been vain, flashes which serve to make him look more distinguished than ever. If he wasn’t wearing a shirt, there would be other marks of the passage of time, scars left upon his body. (Even now, John prefers not to remember the circumstances surrounding the acquisition of _that_ one.)

Sherlock stirs, eyes flickering as if he senses that he’s being watched, and John smiles before gently shaking him awake.

“Morning,” he says, and grins at the confusion with passes over Sherlock’s face just for a moment, watching as comprehension dawns and he sits up against the headboard, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Morning, John.” His voice is hoarse, and John swoops in, pressing a kiss to those lips before handing him the cup of tea.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

  


End file.
